


Bad Moon Rising

by FourCatProductions



Series: The Wheel, The Shield, The World [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Community: skyrimkinkmeme, Emotional Sex, Falling In Love, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Sexual Tension, Skyrim Kink Meme, Slice of Life, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2018-11-17 06:33:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11269962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCatProductions/pseuds/FourCatProductions
Summary: Corim finally convinces Ghorbash to leave the stronghold with him. Somewhere between that and restoring the Gildergreen to its original glory, they fall in love.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> This is another fill I started for the SKM forever ago. It was also for the Orc/Bosmer gay-boyfriends-and-tender-size-kink prompt. So, here's some more words about a big gay Orc and his small gay elf.
> 
> Stand-alone set prior to the events of The Book of Love. You do not have to read that to follow along with this.

It's dawn, and Corim is waiting.

Soon, light will spill over the walls of Dushnhik Yal and the day will begin, but for now, everything is quiet. He sits up on the ramparts, a dark little smudge of a shadow in the pearly-gray mist. He's normally better at sitting still - he can vanish into the background for hours while on the hunt - but today, he's jittery and wound tight, gnawed fingernails and limbs tucked in to keep him from attracting too much attention. He can't stop touching the metal band in his pocket, smoothing his thumb across it until it's skin-warm. He waits until the fog dissipates and heralds the arrival of the sun, and it's not long after that the door to the longhouse opens to a sky splashed with pink and gold.

Corim's hands still. He breathes out, once.

Ghorbash raises his hand in greeting, tusks gleaming in the faint light as he smiles. Corim barrels down the ramp to meet him, bouncing on the balls of his feet with badly-concealed excitement.

"I'm back," he announces.

"It's good to see you again."

"And you. Hold out your hand."

Ghorbash doesn't question it, just holds out one hand, palm up. The ring looks small when Corim places it there, delicate silver against scarred olive skin. Ghorbash doesn't say anything at first, and Corim worries at his lower lip to hide the anxious slant of his mouth. His face never cooperates; he can hit a deer running at two hundred paces with his arrow and climb the highest tree Skyrim has to offer, but he can never quite control how easily his emotions reveal themselves.

"What's this for?" Ghorbash asks finally.

Corim clears his throat. It's important that he get this right. "It's enchanted." The amethyst in the center of the band glitters bright with magica. "Makes you heartier, able to lift more." He tries for a smile. It comes out as a grimace. "I thought maybe you could use some help hauling around all that armor. Not to mention that axe of yours."

Ghorbash just looks at him with calm, dark eyes that somehow always seem to see right through him, and then he shakes his head.

"I can't accept this. It must have been expensive."

But his fingers are curling possessively around it anyway and Corim is certain that it was worth the month and a half he spent saving his septims from selling whatever game he could hunt (plus the leftover belongings of the unlucky bandits who took him for an easy mark).

"You have to keep it," he insists. He hasn't even gotten to the most important part yet. "It's for... it's for when you come with me."

He's proud of himself. His voice only cracks a little.

Ghorbash isn't exactly frowning, but he looks serious now, deep lines scoring his brow and the corners of his mouth. "Are you trying to bribe me?"

Corim can't tell if he's angry or not. He doesn't think so, but his gut feels sour with anxiety anyway. "No! I want you to keep it either way. But we've talked about it before, I - " He cuts himself off there, fidgeting in place, scratching the back of his bare calf with the toe of his boot. "I was hoping - "

"The stronghold needs me," Ghorbash says. But he's still holding onto the ring. Still waiting to be convinced.

"They can manage without you. Not that you're not valuable! It's just..." He tries to think of the best way to phrase it, chewing on his thumbnail. "It's in your eyes. The way you tell all your old war stories. You're not meant to be cooped up behind these walls." He can tell that he's winning now, but he doesn't want to push it, so he adds, "Don't give me an answer right now. Just know that the offer's open." 

Ghorbash considers him for a moment longer, then nods. "So. Tell me what you've been doing. I was wondering when you'd be by again."

He sounds genuinely curious. Corim is sure he's imagining the underlying concern in those words - he lives on wishful thinking these days - but it's still nice to feel missed, to have someone who wants to share stories and meals. Someone who's content to sit quietly up on the wall with him when he runs out of words. He just needs to get Ghorbash back onto the open road.

"Funny you should ask. You won't believe what I've been through." He skips back up to the ramparts so he can settle on the lowest level, cross-legged, and Ghorbash snorts, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Of course I won't believe it. I know you make up half your stories just to impress me." He's teasing, which only happens on rare occasions, when he's happy. Corim's heart does a funny little hopskip at the sight of that lopsided smile.

"Says you. I know you exaggerate all of yours," he retorts.

"But you still like hearing them."

"I do. Now do you want me to tell you about it or not?"

"By all means." Ghorbash settles in next to him, his warm bulk a welcome presence in the morning chill. Corim resists the urge to lean into him.

"Right. So, it all started when I met a talking dog just outside of Falkreath..."

 

Their conversation lasts until near afternoon, flowing easily between them, with plenty of room for comfortable pauses. Ghorbash doesn't bat an eye when Corim tells him about his brush with Clavicus Vile. He supposes it's because most Orcs he's met worship Malacath and are no strangers to dealings with daedra, unlike the humans of Skyrim, who are too fearful of magic for those who live in a land ripe with it. But responsibility calls, and Ghorbash is needed to lead the day's hunting party, so Corim makes himself scarce. Ghorbash likes him, but he's not so sure about the rest of the stronghold.

"Be back around sunset," Ghorbash tells him, and he nods before slipping through the gates, back the way he'd come.

He'll have an answer tonight. He knows what it will be, with a certainty he can feel in his bones. Ghorbash is going to come with him. He can see it in the wanderlust that fills his friend's eyes and seeps into his voice when he recalls his Legion days. It's the same longing that drove Corim from Valenwood's humid embrace - a wild, ever-present ache for something grand and new. He's been on his own for a while now, ever since he left Lidriel standing just outside the gate to Riften, and while he's come to enjoy playing the part of the solitary hunter, another part of him aches for companionship.

 _Soon._ He can't keep from smiling at the thought.

He naps in the shade of the juniper trees that afternoon, one hand on his bow, lulled by the drone of insects and birds whistling overhead as sunlight dapples his skin through the branches, but he doesn't dream; restful sleep has long eluded him. When he wakes, he hunts. Deer and other game are scarce near Markarth's mountainous domain, but he's developed a taste for the plump silver fish that populate the rivers. By the time he's had his fill, the sun is blazing towards the horizon, a splotch of brilliant orange against a deep blue sky that's beginning to bleed purple, and the first stars have begun to appear. He makes his way back to the stronghold, a spring in his step.

Ghorbash is waiting for him at the gates, armor newly polished, rough-hewn battleaxe slung across his back. The ring Corim gave him shimmers on his finger in the dying light. Corim's heart lurches once more and then he's grinning and Ghorbash grins back and they stand there for a moment, examining each other from just out of arm's reach.

"Yes?" Corim asks.

"Yes," Ghorbash says simply. "Where you go, I will follow."

Years later, this is the moment Corim will think about when he thinks about love - a spangled silver twilight, mournful bird songs, and a warrior like a shadow at his back, keeping him safe.


	2. II

The axe cleaves the last spider in half with an unpleasant squelch and a rush of noxious green fluid, and from his perch atop a nearby boulder, Corim shudders. "I hate those things."

"Me too," Ghorbash says. "Too many eyes." He shoulders his axe, blade still dripping. "And legs." His armor is sticky with viscous spider guts, and his hair has come loose from its topknot, sticking to the back of his neck with sweat. He can feel blood trickling from a cut high on his cheek, but it's not the worst he's ever looked after a fight.

Corim slings his bow across his back and hops down, dusting his hands off. "It could have been worse. And now we can tell the smith that we cleared out his mine."

They'd been promised as much gold as the man could scrape up. If Ghorbash is being honest, he's not expecting much; Shor's Stone is a crumbling miner's town, eager for visitors but ill-equipped to receive them. He looks around, and amidst the dirt and equipment, he spies silvery-red veins of ore, glistening in the rock faces rising around them and beneath their feet. "Did he say anything about the mine itself?"

Corim considers for a moment, then shrugs. "We just killed an entire cave's worth of frostbite spiders. I don't think they'll mind too much if we help ourselves to some of the spoils."

Ghorbash kicks aside a still-twitching leg and decides that yes, they are definitely entitled to their fair share. He sets Corim about gathering up whatever loose chunks he can carry while he pries a few of the larger ones from the wall with a pickaxe, and they climb out of the mine a short time later, arms full of unpolished ebony. Ghorbash melts it down while Corim watches, fascinated by the way fire shapes the ore into thick, black bars as smoke belches from the top of the smelter.

"Haven't you ever tried smithing?" he asks.

Corim shakes his head, big dark eyes transfixed on him. "There was nothing like this in Valenwood." He steps a little closer, watches Ghorbash's hands as they gather ingots. "We don't use fire much."

Ghorbash hears the unspoken question behind his words, and nods, straightening up, their prize stowed away in his pack. "I'll show you sometime."

Corim's smile is flame-bright. They leave Shor's Stone late that morning, pockets lined with gold.

"What are you going to do with those?" Corim asks.

It's cloudy overhead, and everything is still. Their surroundings are picturesque, and up ahead, the mottled scrub brush lining either side of the dirt road gives way to thick, vibrant woods as far as the eye can see, green blending with orange and reddish-gold. Ghorbash knows what he's going to do with them. Already, deep down, he knows, but he keeps that knowledge close to his chest for now, heavy with anticipation. "Dunno yet."

Corim nods, chews on his lower lip. His nose twitches once, twice. "It smells like rain," he says.

 

Morning fades into afternoon cool and easy amongst the Rift's autumnal lushness, and Ghorbash leans against the trunk of a gnarled oak, watching Corim scale it with a fluid grace he envies. "You would have made a good scout in the Legion," he calls after him. The reply is hushed and unintelligible, but most likely telling him to be quiet. He laughs softly. Not long after, there's some rustling overhead as Corim makes his return, head popping back into view.

"It's definitely going to rain," he announces, managing to sound completely serious even hanging upside-down from a low branch. There's a leaf stuck in his curls, burnt orange against deep brown. "Also, I just remembered. We're low on supplies. I'm going to run out of arrows soon."

"Show-off," Ghorbash says, and reaches up to pluck the leaf from his hair. "We've been low on supplies for days. If we doubled back now, we could be in Riften before nightfall."

"I'm not going to Riften," Corim says sharply.

Ghorbash doesn't push the issue. He's tried before, and isn't eager to repeat the experience _._ He opens his fist and the leaf flutters away on the breeze. "What do you want to do, then?"

"I saw something just over the hill. A house, I think. Hard to tell from here." Corim doubles up so he can grab the branch and does a neat dismount, landing in a crouch. "We can go see if it's abandoned. Clear it out if it's not," he adds, with a smile full of sharp white teeth.

Ghorbash doesn't mind the rain. He's fought wars in the middle of thunderstorms and on the banks of flooded rivers, waist-deep in mud and bloody currents intent on dragging him out to sea. But if Corim wants to find shelter, he's not going to complain about staying warm and dry. "Let's go, then."

The shack - _house_ is too generous a term - turns out to be deserted, and the sky has darkened to the color of a bruise by the time they make it there. The first fat droplets of rain spatter against the dirt as they duck inside, and Corim drags the door shut behind them, wedging it shut with a splintered branch from the woodpile in the corner. It's cramped and lists to one side, rotten wood creaking eerily as the wind picks up around them.

Ghorbash has to stand at an awkward angle so his head doesn't brush the roof, and after a minute, he gives up and crouches on the threadbare rug in the center of the room. "I can build a fire, if you want." He needs something to do with his hands.

"Why not?" Corim mimics him, crouching down, and looks around with interest. The shack has the feeling of being freshly abandoned, as though whoever had inhabited it previously had gone in a hurry, leaving behind several of their possessions. Along with the rug, there's a torn cot shoved against the back wall, a mismatched set of pots and pans strewn next to an overturned chest, and a couple of battered books next to the woodpile. "I wonder who used to live here?"

"I wonder why they left," Ghorbash says.

Corim picks up one of the books and thumbs through its dog-eared pages. "I do, too." He falls silent after that, and Ghorbash picks out the driest wood from the stack and coaxes a fire to life. It flickers and dances, casting long, twisted shapes on the walls in time with the rhythm of the rain outside.

They end up sitting across from each other, and Ghorbash sneaks the occasional glance at him under the guise of staring into the flames. Corim's hair sticks up in haphazard waves, and the firelight kisses his bare torso and throat, tantalizing glimpses of bronze skin highlighted by shadow. He'd picked up some hide armor off a bandit chief a few weeks back, just outside Morthal, and kept it, preferring it to constricting leather or heavy steel. Ghorbash has spent more time than he cares to admit trying not to stare at his finely-muscled chest and back, or the way it clings to his hips when he walks.

"How long do you want to stay?" His voice is too loud in the silence.

Corim doesn't seem to notice, tracing idle patterns in the dirt with his fingernail. "This seems like a good place to camp for the night. We're going to be here for a while, anyway." His eyes have taken on a strange golden cast from the fire. He tilts his head towards the door, listening. "We're in for a storm."

It begins to pour.

 

They met three moons prior, when the half-dead Bosmer had dragged himself up the road to the stronghold gates and collapsed in front of them in a crumpled heap. It had been Ghorbash who convinced the rest that they should help, and Ghorbash who had made a bed of furs next to the hearth and coaxed healing potions between those dirty, cracked lips until Corim, spluttering, had regained consciousness.

He still isn't sure what compelled him to do it. Perhaps he'd sensed a kindred spirit - not many would have survived such a brutal sabercat attack, and few dared to approach Dushnhik Yal unless they were bloodkin. Or perhaps he had simply gone soft after so many years away from the field and real combat. Whatever the cause, he had sat with the elf, applying poultices that made him hiss, face screwed up in discomfort, and bandaged the deeper wounds that refused to close even after the potions he'd been given.

(Corim still has scars from that encounter, long pink stripes that arc across his throat and down his left arm and chest, plus the smaller ones that follow the curve of his cheek and jaw. He doesn't like them, shies away whenever he glimpses his reflection in the river as they bathe. Ghorbash doesn't understand. Scars are proof of strength. Of _survival._ )

He'd stayed with them for a week and a day, Ghorbash charged with his care until he was able to leave them, and he'd told the story of what brought him to Skyrim in bits and pieces as he'd recovered. It had been hard for him to talk much, so Ghorbash had shared old war stories to pass the time, and how he'd come to be at the stronghold, even though it was almost unheard of for two fully-grown Orc brothers to share the same territory once they'd come of age.

Corim had listened raptly, bundled up in fur next to the fire, asking questions whenever Ghorbash paused or ran out of words. He was an excellent listener, so much so that Ghorbash had found himself confessing things he normally set aside or pushed deep down in the dead of night - things like the unease that grew with each passing day behind the walls, his desire to travel once more, and most startlingly, the nightmares that plagued his sleep ever since his service with the Legion ended.

"I don't sleep well either," Corim had said upon hearing his confession, raspy voice sympathetic. "Not since... not since I left Valenwood." And Ghorbash hadn't pressed him, because he understood. Nobody slept soundly on Skyrim's blood-drenched soil. Not even the dead.

He hadn't expected to find that kind of quiet camaraderie in Markarth's harsh mountains. Whenever he'd been away from the longhouse for more than an hour or two, his thoughts would inevitably drift back to Corim, and their whispered conversations late into the night. Tenderness had never come easily to him, but his hands became gentle of their own accord whenever he helped Corim change his bandages. One dozy evening, he'd come home exhausted from the hunt and collapsed on the furs next to the sleeping elf, who'd merely mumbled and burrowed further into the pile. They'd stayed like that, back to back, warmed by the fire and their shared body heat. It hadn't occurred to Ghorbash until the next day that he hadn't even considered trying to make it to his own bed.

On the eighth day, Corim had taken off the bandages and said, "Come with me." 

"I can't dishonor the place the Chief has made for me," Ghorbash had argued, even as his blood thrummed beneath his skin at the thought of the open road. 

Corim had nodded, the newly-scarred flesh on his face pulling at his smile. As if he'd expected it. "Well, do what you feel is right. That's all any of us can do."

And then, just like that, he was gone.

 

"Hey," Ghorbash says over the hushed pitter-patter of the rain. Corim blinks at him. "You left." He doesn't know how to point out that there wasn't a real goodbye, just an ordinary gray morning and a handful of septims and cracked jewels left in a pouch on the nightstand next to his bed. He doesn't know why it matters. "I didn't think you were going to come back."

Corim curls into himself, as if the thought hurts. "I'm not... good. At good-byes." His finger traces loose, wobbly circles in the dirt next to his knee. "I always planned on coming back, though."

Ghorbash looks him over, doesn't detect any falsehood in his eyes or the anxious slant of his mouth. "Why?"

"You were... kind. To me. You didn't have to be." He runs his fingers through his hair, looking slightly embarrassed, and smiles. "Besides, anyone could see that you needed an excuse to leave."

"Huh," Ghorbash says. He leaves it at that. He doesn't think that Corim is ready to hear him say, _no, it had to be you._

 

The fire is on its last, dying gasp by the time the rain stops. Ghorbash wakes to Corim's hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. They kick dirt over the embers and when he opens the door, pale sunlight pours into the shack. It looks even worse illuminated, and Ghorbash wonders again who used to live there. The clouds have gone soft and pearly, docile in a tender blue sky, and they emerge to the rich smell of damp forest all around them. "What now?" Ghorbash asks.

Corim considers, face upturned to catch the light. His eyes are lighter brown like this, almost honey-colored, and he has a smattering of freckles across his cheekbones. Ghorbash isn't sure how he never noticed them before. He bites his tongue, tries to ignore how much he wants to taste them. "We should find food. Stock up for tonight in case it storms again."

They haven't eaten since the previous night. Ghorbash's stomach snarls in agreement. Their search takes them over wet green hills and through the red-gold woods, and Corim leaves intricate little marks only he can decipher in their wake. But the animals are slow to emerge after the downpour, and by the time they find themselves in the volcanic stretch of land between Windhelm and Whiterun, all they have to show for their efforts is a handful of berries Corim had pronounced safe to eat.

"Y'ffre's balls," Corim mutters, and scuffs his toe against the dirt, dust rising to kiss his calves. "Sorry. I took us too far."

"Doesn't mean it's a wasted trip," Ghorbash says. "I haven't been here in a long time, but I think I can still find it."

Corim looks confused, but trails after him when he starts heading west. "Find what?"

"You'll see."

It's been years, but his feet remember the way. It's not long before they find themselves on the edge of a rocky outcropping, watching the hot spring hiss and bubble, steam shrouding the water in a veil of white. There are flat, shallow pools at the top that cascade into the massive one just below them, and Corim crouches down and cautiously dips a finger into one. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Just keep your bow handy." Ghorbash is already working on the buckles to his breastplate, and it's with a sigh that he shrugs it off, relieved to be rid of the weight for a moment. He thinks he hears something like a gasp, but when he glances over Corim is getting to his feet, expression neutral, and he figures it must have been the springs. He takes off his gauntlets. Corim fumbles to remove his own cuirass, unbuckling a strap, and Ghorbash catches a glimpse of one dusky pink nipple, sweet against that tawny skin. His skin prickles and he turns around, disguising a hard swallow with a cough. They strip away the rest of their armor in silence, eyes trained elsewhere.

Corim sighs blissfully as he slips into the water. "I take it back. This was an amazing idea."

"I have those sometimes," Ghorbash says, proud of himself for remembering. He sinks in on the other side, and closes his eyes, heat seeping pleasantly into his bones. He keeps them closed. If he keeps them closed, he won't look at Corim, and if he doesn't look at Corim, he won't lose himself in the curve where the elf's neck meets his shoulder, or be envious of the water droplets clinging to his skin and eyelashes, shimmering like diamonds in the sun. He'll give himself away if he stares too long.

He wants to stare. He wants to drink in the sight.

He keeps his eyes closed.

"Want some?" A bony elbow nudges him. He opens his eyes to see Corim holding out a handful of the berries, little pink spheres nestled on his palm. "They're not great. But they're something." Ghorbash makes himself eat some. They burst on his tongue and linger there tartly. He's eaten far worse, so he has a few more, then lets Corim finish the rest. Corim chews them, nose wrinkling when he swallows. "I hope we find something better on the way back. Rabbit, maybe."

"Why won't you go to Riften?" Ghorbash hadn't meant to ask. It just slips out, his tongue unguarded in the moment.

Corim glares at him and does an awkward little swim-shuffle backwards, sinking back into the water until he's submerged to his chin. "Why does it matter?"

"Because we're out of food and you won't go to the closest hold. I want to know why." Corim's scowl deepens. Ghorbash presses on. "I just want to understand."

Corim pulls a face, but it's devoid of anger this time. He just looks weary, and a little sad. "If you really want to know, I have a brother there. Sort of."

"Sort of?"

"We grew up together. We were blood brothers, until we came to Skyrim." The corners of his mouth turn down, lips thinning. "Lidriel always was too clever for his own good. Too clever and too greedy. He fell in with some thieves a while back. I haven't seen him in months."

"Oh," Ghorbash says, because he doesn't know what else to say, and immediately regrets bringing up the subject.

Corim laughs, but there's no humor in his eyes. "He's probably leading them by now. That, or he's dead." He scrubs one wet hand over his eyes before raking it over his head, leaving his hair to stick out at odd angles. "The last time I saw him, he acted like everything was the same. I couldn't stand it. He's going to get himself killed, hanging around that lot, but he never listens to me, because he thinks he's so bloody charming that he can talk his way out of anything - "

He stops abruptly, throat bobbing, and Ghorbash very nearly reaches out to him. He stops himself at the last second. "I shouldn't have asked."

Corim waves him off. "It's fine. Let's just talk about something else."

"Whiterun is less than a day from here, if we move quickly," Ghorbash says after a moment's pause. "We could stay there for a while. There's always work and coin." _And food,_ he adds silently, recalling the Bannered Mare's venison stew and chilled, fresh ale with a twinge of longing. 

"I was thinking the same thing." A bee bobbles around the tip of Corim's ear, droning lazily, and he flicks it away in a surprisingly cat-like movement, eyes half-lidded. Ghorbash hides a smile. Corim doesn't seem to notice. He stands, water streaming down his bare torso, and his skin glistens like polished bronze in the light. "Let's go before it gets too dark to hunt."

Ghorbash looks away. He has to.

"Okay," he says.

 

The shack remains untouched in their absence, and the sky has faded to lilac by the time they return, spoils hanging from their belts. They'd caught a rabbit and a pair of pheasants, plus some wild apples and a gourd they'd stumbled upon at the edge of the forest. Ghorbash clears the remains of that afternoon's fire and begins building a new one while Corim plucks and cleans their finds, and soon they have a crude roasting pit, meat and squash sizzling over the open flame. They eat the apples cold while they wait, juice sticky on their chins.

"You like building things," Corim says once they've finished their second apple each. It's not really a question.

Ghorbash shrugs and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "I like using my hands." He built the fire because he likes how Corim looks sitting next to it, gold all over like honey and mead and summer, smudged soft and touchable around the edges. "I like doing something and seeing what I made when I'm done. Touching it. Fixing it. Making it better than it used to be."

Their food looks done, and he pulls two of their hastily-sharpened skewers out of the pit and hands one to Corim, who takes it wordlessly. Neither of them speaks again until the food is gone and the fire is starting to burn low. It's a warm enough night to go without, so they smother it until there's nothing but ash and moonbeams filtering through the cracks in the roof.

"I want to build my own house," Ghorbash says as they lay their furs out and sprawl on the floor, not quite touching. "Find some land and settle once I've had my fill of adventuring."

If this surprises Corim, he doesn't show it. "Most would rather just buy one."

"If I build it, then I know it's strong." Ghorbash pillows his head on his arms and stares up at the sky. He can see the first speckled stars appearing through the hole directly overhead. They put him in mind of Corim's freckles. "I don't want to live in the city."

"Are you going to start your own stronghold?" Corim teases.

"Are you going to live in a tree?" Ghorbash shifts in place, splintered floorboards creaking beneath him. "Nothin's ever really felt like home, so I'm gonna make my own someday. But for now..." He points up, where the first sliver of the moon is barely visible through the torn thatching. "This is good."

"It is," Corim agrees softly. He sounds so young and wistful in that moment that it makes Ghorbash's heart clench. "I'm sorry about earlier. I don't like to talk about Lidriel much."

"Don't be. It's not my business."

"Still. If I trust you enough to travel with me, I can tell you why I won't go somewhere." He rolls onto his side, propping his cheek in his hand. "I miss him. Or I miss who he used to be. I don't know which."

"He's your brother." Ghorbash's thoughts drift back to Dushnhik Yal. "You can miss him and know it's better to be apart at the same time."

"I just didn't think..." Corim trails off, shaking his head. "He's always been self-absorbed. And impractical. And ambitious. But a thief? I don't see how. You can spot him from a hundred paces, for one thing."

"How so?"

"Gods. He has this - " Corim makes a vague gesture around his head, mouth twitching, " - this ridiculous _hair_ , it's near down to his waist and he braids all sorts of nonsense into it. Flowers, feathers, even coin and jewels if he has some to spare." He gives in and laughs properly this time. "He's surely been caught by now. Reckless little fetcher. Maybe some time in prison would do him some good."

Ghorbash chuckles, but his mind is elsewhere. He's picturing Corim with flowers in his hair.


	3. III

"Here," Ghorbash says, because Ghorbash doesn't do fanfare, and hands it to him.

The bow is sleek, still warm from the forge, and blacker than midnight. It sings in Corim's hands.

"Oh," he breathes, awestruck.

He's never been good with words. That was always more Lidriel's talent. Sweet, silver-tongued Lidriel, who could sell tusks to a horker and spoke for both of them more often than not. But Ghorbash has seemingly learned to interpret his silences, and he hopes his friend can read the gratitude in the planes of his face and the curve of his hands, because he's never held anything so precious.

He hugs it to his chest, and Ghorbash laughs. "You're welcome." He scratches his nose with soot-stained fingers. "Your old one was bound to snap sooner than later. This one will last."

"It's beautiful," Corim finally manages, voice thick. "Thanks."

Ghorbash shakes his head. "Thank me when it saves your life, not before." But he still looks pleased, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and not for the first time, Corim wonders about Orcish courting customs. He doesn't know how they express their desire to a potential partner, but the thought of such a thing being forged for him as a gift, a show of _intent,_ makes his stomach clench. "You had something you wanted to tell me?"

"Right!" He'd nearly forgotten. "That big tree by the temple, the sad, withered one? I talked to the priestess. She said it could be saved." The sight of it was like a blade to the heart, when he’d seen it first. Its branches should be thick and flowering, not curled up like knobbly gray fingers. "Only, she doesn't have the knife she needs, or else she'd have done it by now."

"Who has it?"

"Not who. What. Hagravens."

Ghorbash's lip curls. "Where?"

"Orphan Rock. She marked it on my map." His grip on the bow tightens. "We have to get that knife."

If Ghorbash thinks him a sentimental fool, he hides it well. He nods. "When do we leave?"

"At dawn. I want to catch them unawares." It's late afternoon, sun-warm and breezy, and the joyous screams of children in the distance mingle with dogs barking and the faint hubbub of the town square just up the road. Corim has spent the last few months avoiding cities, and the sudden concentration of sound and smell is overwhelming. He takes a deep breath, and the nearby scent of roasted meat floods his nostrils and sets his mouth to watering. "Are you hungry? I'm hungry."

"Drunken Huntsmen always has the best game," Ghorbash says, and claps him on the shoulder, touch lingering. "Come on. Let's get you some decent arrows for that bow."

 

It's past midnight and they need to be on their way in a few short hours, but Corim can't sleep. Their room is spacious and his belly is full for the first time in weeks, but he's itching to see the stars. The bed, however, is soft enough that leaving it right then seems a poor choice. He rolls onto his side, then his back, then his side again. The window is too small to provide much light, but he can make out Ghorbash on the other bed if he squints, sprawled out and snoring peacefully.

He could go hunting, he thinks. The plains are filled with prey. But hunting won't relieve this particular urge, so he stays put and watches the rise and fall of Ghorbash's chest. Their visit to the hot spring was a week gone now, but he can picture it in perfect detail if he closes his eyes: Ghorbash lounging in the steaming water, hulking and stubble-cheeked and _wet._ Corim had barely slept at all that night, afraid of the dreams that might visit him.

He wonders, as he often does on his lonelier nights, what his friend might do if Corim crawled into his bed.

It's nights like these that he misses Lidriel and his affinity for touch. His brother was always content to curl up at his back and soothe him, or play with his hair, or watch over him while he slept, but it's just as well; this is not the kind of ache that can be done away with so easily. He crumples the sheets in his fists. If he sits up, he can see the moons hanging just outside the window, growing riper with each passing night. He turns his face away, and his gaze lands on his new bow, propped up against the nightstand between their beds. Ghorbash had carved strange, intricate designs along the length of it; he can't see them, but he knows they're there, has run his palm along them all day. It's so lovely he could cry.

Ghorbash grunts and rolls onto his stomach, blanket twisted low around his hips. A slant of moonlight falls perfectly across the dip in his back, highlighting the dimples just above where the swell of his ass begins. His skin is the color of moss and leaves and every part of Corim longs to reach out and taste him in that moment, to see if he smells as much like home as he looks. 

 _Home._ He breathes the word like a sigh. The moons go dark as clouds sweep past, like snuffing out a candle. 

 

There will always be certain things Corim hates fighting more than others. He hates frostbite spiders, and mudcrabs and sabrecats, and he hates the Thalmor Justicars he's encountered in the wild, with their lightning magic and smug laughter. The guilt he feels when facing spriggans lingers for days like a splinter - even though he doesn't adhere to it as strictly as he once did, he can't help but feel like he's spitting directly into the face of the Green Pact. And now he's pretty sure he can add hagravens to that list. A wave of blistering heat washes over him, singeing his hair and the tips of his ears as a fireball explodes inches from the boulder he's crouched behind. He coughs, dirt and smoke swirling in the air around him, and drops onto all fours, trying to shake it off. The hag's ear-splitting screech of triumph chases him into the underbrush, quickly followed by a deep, snarling battle cry.

Ghorbash had made short, silent work of the witches that served the hag while Corim scaled a small oak, trying to find a good vantage point. Unused to the weight of his new bow, his shot had gone wide, barely grazing her. He lays low now, trying to assess the situation through the thick gray smoke and his own watery vision.

Ghorbash's axe, freshly honed, could separate any living creature from its head with a single stroke at five paces. He can't get close enough, though; the hagraven is too clever for that, forcing him back away from her nest and onto the fallen tree that acts as a bridge between the twin plateaus with walls of flame at every turn. Corim looks up at the trees surrounding him. There's a nearby oak with sturdy lower branches. He hops to his feet, sends up a silent thanks and apology to Ghorbash all at once for distracting her. The hag's magic falters momentarily, depleted, and Ghorbash charges at her, thundering across the tree trunk. Corim begins to climb.

The hagraven changes tactics and raises her grimy, clawed hands, sending a huge spike of ice hurtling at Ghorbash, point blank. He throws himself to the side, crashing into her shelter, and she shrieks with outrage. The second and third spikes catch him in the side and shoulder, and his howl of pain reverberates through Corim's bones.

Rage swells in his chest, threatening to spill over, but he forces it back down, the edges of his vision tinted scarlet. _You will not touch him_. He is calm. He reaches for an arrow and nocks his bow, his hands steady, and whistles the way Lidriel taught him when they were younger - a piercing call designed to carry over the treetops. The hagraven whirls around, searching wildly for the unseen enemy. Corim pulls the bowstring so tight, he thinks it might snap. He's so focused, he doesn't see Ghorbash back on his feet, blood streaming from the puncture wounds in his armor, teeth bared and axe in hand. His arrow finds her heart as the axe blade finds her throat.

Corim watches the hag's body crumple, and the rushing in his ears fades. Nobody will take Ghorbash from him. Not while he still draws breath.

There's not much in the way of valuables, but Corim's only after one thing. He plucks Nettlebane from the corpse's belt. It's an ugly, heavy blade made of twisted black metal. Just touching it makes his skin crawl. He remembers what Danica had said, how the hags created it to be strong against the natural world because they despised all growing, living things. He wraps it in a spare tunic and shoves it into his pack, not wanting to look at it. "You took the potion, right?"

"Yes. Quit asking." Ghorbash's wounds are gone, but Corim keeps looking at where they would have been. He wants to climb all over Ghorbash, rub his face against him and scent-mark him, feel for himself that he's safe. He does none of these things. 

"Find anything good?"

"Couple of soul gems, some gold. This." Ghorbash plunks the helmet he'd picked up on his head. It's fine Nordic steel, and its surface gleams with enchantments. 

"What does it do?"

"No idea." They climb down the plateau together and leave the woods for the plains once more. It's nearing afternoon, and the drone of insects fills the air, the sky a creamy blue overhead. Ghorbash holds out his hand when they near a cluster of boulders. "Let me see your bow for a second." Corim hands it over, along with the one iron arrow left in his quiver. Ghorbash sights along the shaft and fires. It arcs high, nowhere near the rocks, and soars off into the distance. Ghorbash hands the bow back with a shrug. "Doesn't improve your archery."

"I'll say."

"Tell you what. You can make fun of me when you can swing my axe." The handle itself is almost as long as Corim is tall. He thinks about Ghorbash picking him up as easily as he does the axe, and stumbles over his own feet.

"Come on, let's try to find out what it actually does," he mumbles, and hurries on. Ghorbash follows him, looking smug.

They find out what it does on accident. Ghorbash wades into one of the small ponds not far from Whiterun's farm country for a drink and to cool off, and realizes he can still breathe even when his face is submerged. They're arguing about whether to sell it or keep it as they climb the steps to the temple, the day's heat making them both mulish.

"I can't enchant worth a skeever's arse," Corim says as he pushes open the carved doors and steps into the blessedly cool shade. "Can you?"

"Not as well as some," Ghorbash admits. "But water-breathing is a hard enchantment to come by."

"We'll talk later, priestess is coming over."

Danica is pleased to see them back in one piece, but she refuses to touch Nettlebane, as if she's afraid the hagravens' magic still lingers, waiting to taint her own.

"I can't really afford to leave the wounded," she explains, apologetic. "Could the two of you handle this next part? I'll tell you where you need to go."

"Why not?" Corim digs out his map.

Danica marks Eldergleam Sanctuary for them. "I told you about the sap, right?" she asks. Ghorbash grunts in the affirmative. A sick feeling bubbles up from the pit of Corim's stomach. "Good. I'll give you a vial to hold it. As soon as you bring it back, we can begin to revive the Gildergreen." 

It's not out of malice, Corim reminds himself as they take their leave. The Gildergreen is like a child, needing nourishment from its mother to survive. Surely Y'ffre could see the reasoning behind that. But his face must still reflect his unease, because Ghorbash takes his arm and leads him off to the side, behind one of the pillars near the entrance.

"What's wrong?"

"It's not - I shouldn't -" The words get all jumbled up in his mouth, warring with each other out of frustration. He's strayed from the Green Pact, yes, but this still feels wrong. For all his blasphemy, he's never cut living wood. "I don't know what to do."

"Maybe I can help."

The speaker is a stocky Breton man with long dark hair and a neat goatee, peering around the pillar next to them. Both of them glare at him, and he smiles apologetically. "I seem to have forgotten my manners in my haste. Forgive me for eavesdropping."

Ghorbash's nostrils flare. "What do you want?"

"My name is Maurice Jondrell. I came to Whiterun to see the Gildergreen as part of my pilgrimage, but the state it's in... it's shameful." He shakes his head. "The priestess - Danica, is it? I tried bringing it up with her, but she's made it clear that she doesn't consider it part of her work."

"That's why we're doing it!" Corim exclaims. A part of him is glad for the man's annoyance. Ghorbash is helping him, but he doesn't have the same investment in seeing it restored as Corim does. If he hadn't come along, how long would the Gildergreen have slumbered? It's appalling to think about. He digs Nettlebane out of his pack and unwraps it, showing it to Maurice. "She wants us to use this to retrieve some sap from the Eldergleam."

Maurice's face twists with anger. "A priestess of Kynareth should know better than to ask you to violate Her glory with that... _thing._ " He glares over his shoulder at Danica's turned back, then exhales, composing himself. "I've long dreamt of seeing the Eldergleam with my own eyes. If you'll permit me to accompany you, I may be able to offer a solution."

Ghorbash remains silent, skepticism plain on his face, but Corim can't agree fast enough. He can practically feel himself levitating off the floorboards, light-headed with relief. "You really think you can help us?"

"Kynareth will provide the answer," Maurice says. "Have faith. When do we leave?" 

"Depends on how you feel about traveling in the dark," Ghorbash says. "We can head out right after we eat if you're up for it."

"I'm amenable." Maurice chuckles. "Your companion seems eager to set out."

"Food first," Ghorbash says, unmoved.

Corim rolls his eyes. "Fine. C'mon, we're wasting time just standing around." They leave Maurice with the promise that he'll meet them at the gates come sunset, and Corim bounds out the door and down the steps, basking in the late afternoon light.

Ghorbash follows him, not nearly as pleased as he is with the situation. "So, you're telling me we went and got that dagger for no reason."

"We don't even know if the human's idea will work," Corim points out, refusing to let his good mood be dampened. "We might as well have a back-up. And we got that helmet. That's not nothing."

"True." Ghorbash prods him in the shoulder with one thick finger. "Quit trying to convince me to sell it."

"Fine, do what you want," Corim says, mind already elsewhere. Nettlebane had been forged with enough hateful magic to cut the heart of nature itself. When this is over, he will bury it deep in the plains.

Two days. His skin itches.


	4. IV

The sapling in Corim's arms is as big as his torso, but he refuses to let anyone else carry it, cradling the bundled roots like a child. Maurice accompanies them back to the sanctuary entrance. He looks completely at peace, backlit by the sunlight pouring in through the canopy and the lush verdant slopes rising around them. Corim keeps thanking him, to the point where Ghorbash is a little envious. Not that he doesn't appreciate the man's efforts, but he's not sure he likes Corim looking at someone else with that much admiration in his eyes, and _that_ revelation has him off-balance in a way he doesn't care for at all.

Maurice waves it all off, smiling. "It was my pleasure," he insists, touching one of the sapling's leaves. They're pale green and still just beginning to bud. "Perhaps this will remind Danica that nature's truest blessings lie in renewal."

Corim nods. A beam of sunlight drenches him, and he glows, a pair of monarchs resting in his curls. Ghorbash is so busy looking at him that he doesn't realize he's being spoken to at first.

"Ghorbash? Did you hear me?"

“Huh?"

Corim frowns at him. “I asked if you were ready to go.”

“Oh. Yeah. Whenever you’re ready.”

“Thank you again,” Corim says to Maurice, who puts his hand on Corim’s shoulder and gives it a little squeeze.

“You are most welcome, my friend. I imagine I’ll come to Whiterun to see how the new sapling is getting along someday.”

“You should!” Corim chirps.

 _Long after we’re gone,_ Ghorbash thinks. The way Maurice’s hand rests on Corim’s shoulder is making him want to break something.

“We should go,” he says, sharper than he means to. “It’s a ways back to Whiterun.”

“Okay,” Corim says, too absorbed in the sapling to notice. He bids Maurice goodbye, and they emerge from the sanctuary into a sun-soaked afternoon. Birds trill joyously overhead. It grates on Ghorbash’s nerves. He walks ahead, trying to sort out the jumble of his thoughts. Corim trots after him.

He doesn’t think of himself as possessive. Corim belongs to no one but himself, same as Ghorbash. He can do as he pleases. But there’s no denying that a part of him wanted to crush Maurice’s fingers the second they came to rest on Corim’s shoulder. Even now, the thought makes him sour.

It’s his own fault. He wasn’t planning on smithing Corim a bow so soon, but it had been a matter of practicality (and a lack of coin). His people forged their emotions into their weapons – pride, grief, anger, love – and he was no exception. The bow Corim carries is one that would be given, under other circumstances, as a proposal. If he’d held back, it wouldn’t have been worth making, so he’d had no choice but to carry on. But now he has no idea if his feelings are even returned. He’d thought maybe, lately, but now…

No matter. Even if they aren’t, he will still be Corim’s friend. He never wants that to change. It’s the not-knowing that itches at him.

“Hey.” Corim falls into step with him, jolting him out of his thoughts. “Quit walking so fast, will you? This is heavy.”

“I’m not walking fast. You’re just short.”

“S'wit.” Corim shifts the tree in his arms, making a face as twigs prod his cheek and tangle in his hair.

Ghorbash manages to keep a straight face. “Sure you don’t want me to carry that for you?”

Corim shoots him an offended look. “I can carry it.”

“I’m just saying.”

“ _I’m_ just saying. I’ve got it.”

Ghorbash raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I won’t touch the tree.”

“Good.”

“Fine.”

Corim breaks first, his scowl giving way to laughter, and Ghorbash chuckles, relieved. Maybe there’s still hope for him yet.

 

They’re halfway to Whiterun when the dragon attacks.

One minute, things are peaceful; they’re walking through the forest, following the river as they catch glimpses of it through the trees, listening to the rapids rush past them. The next, a great shadow glides overhead, blocking out the sun. A roar shakes the trees, and birds scatter every which way, cawing in alarm. Ghorbash reaches for his axe out of habit, and looks skyward, catching a glimpse of leathery wings and a long, serpentine tail through the canopy. At his side, Corim has gone still, eyes darting around like a startled deer. He clutches the sapling to his chest. “What was that?”

The beast above lets out a blood-curdling screech. A hot gust of wind blasts through the trees, shaking the branches like a hurricane and buffeting Ghorbash and Corim forward. The treetops catch fire.

Corim’s eyes are white around the edges with growing terror. He backs up against Ghorbash’s side as flames start gnawing at the tree trunks. A branch nearby hits the ground, sending up a shower of sparks. “Ghorbash, the Gildergreen!”

There’s no time. Their exit is shrinking with every passing second as the fire climbs from tree to tree, the air filling with ember and smoke. The creature overhead cries out triumphantly, and there’s a crash that shakes the ground beneath their feet as it lands somewhere nearby. Ghorbash grabs the sapling from Corim and tucks it under one arm, then throws him over his shoulder with the other. He bolts for the river. Flames lick at them like clutching fingers, and smoke fills his nostrils and stings his eyes, but he bursts through, out onto the riverbank. Burning trees topple behinds them as the beast comes crashing through. Ghorbash takes off his helmet, shoves it onto Corim’s head, and hurls himself into the churning rapids.

He tries to hold on, but the water is fierce, buffeting them about like toy boats in a storm, and the current rips Corim away. Ghorbash flails, one-armed, and his head breaks the surface. He sucks air into his lungs, coughing, and hears the monster wail angrily in the distance, cheated of its prize.

“Corim!” Water fills his mouth, making him splutter and gag, the word lost. The river drags him along at a breakneck pace, and he can’t swim against it with the tree still in his grasp. On one side of him, the rocky cliff face watches as he’s swept by, unmoved. On the other, the forest burns orange and gold.

“Ghorbash!” Corim surfaces in the distance, paddling frantically. He yells something else that Ghorbash can’t make out, water clogging his ears as they’re swept around the riverbend. Jagged boulders await them, and Ghorbash rattles painfully in his armor as he’s bounced off the rocks. He tries to cling to them, but they’re slippery and he can’t find purchase. Corim yells again, bobbing up ahead as the river shakes him like a ragdoll.

He’s sucked down, and spat back up a moment later, where the mouth of the river narrows and the sound of water roaring and crashing against rocks grows louder with each passing second. _Falls,_ Ghorbash realizes. Corim had been trying to tell him that they were headed for the falls. They swim for one another, hands outstretched, but Corim is too far away for Ghorbash to catch up. He takes a deep breath. _Protect the sapling_ , he tells himself. Corim would be devastated if anything happened to it. When he curls around it protectively, the current sucks him under. His head strikes a rock as it drags him along the riverbed. There's pain, flaring sharp and white down the side of his face, and then, for a while, there's nothing at all.

 

Someone calls his name from far away. Ghorbash stirs, wavering in and out of consciousness. His head pounds like a war drum, a sickening tattoo that makes him nauseous. It’s dark out when he opens his eyes, but the ground beneath him is solid and dry, and moonlight frosts everything silver.

Corim’s face swims into view, blurry and pale. He lets out a shuddery little breath. “Thank Y’ffre. You’re awake.”

Ghorbash turns his head to the side, ignoring the throbbing in his skull. The sapling sits next to him. Some of its sprouting branches are bent or snapped clean off, but it’s alive. He looks back at Corim, who’s hovering over him with worry scrawled all over his face, and smiles, even as it makes his face ache.

“I saved your tree,” he croaks.

Corim throws his arms around Ghorbash’s neck and kisses him.

He’s not expecting it, and he flinches as their noses bump together, pain skittering up his skull. By the time he’s registered what’s happening, Corim has pulled back, face red. “I’m sorry! Are you okay?”

“Shh,” Ghorbash says, and draws him back, hands cupping his face. “Come here.” It’s little more than a chaste press of lips, both of them bedraggled and exhausted, but it makes him feel warm.

Corim brushes another kiss against the corner of his mouth when he pulls away, suddenly shy. He busies himself checking their supplies, and finds an unbroken healing potion, which he gives to Ghorbash to relieve the worst of his aches. “We can stay here until morning. You should get some rest.”

“Where are we?”

“Dunno. I just went inland until I found this. I think it might be an abandoned bear den. Nothing’s lived here for a while, though. No trace of anything.”

“How’d you carry me all that way? I’m a lot heavier than that little sapling."

Corim shrugs, nonchalant. “You’d be amazed what you can do under duress.”

Ghorbash stares up at the little patch of sky visible through the circle of treetops. The first freckling of stars is milky against the deep blue night. “You kissed me.”

Corim goes even redder, blush spilling down his neck. “You kissed me back!”

“Damn right I did.” He closes his eyes. They refuse to stay open any longer. “Woulda kissed you sooner if I had any sense.”

To his surprise, a warm body settles against his side, head nestled in the crook of his arm. “Is this okay?”

“Mm, it’s alright, I guess.”

“S'wit!” Corim shoves at him lightly. “I can go sleep somewhere else, you know.”

“You won’t, though.”

“Hush.” There’s a smile in his voice.

They lay quiet, listening to the whippoorwills in the nearby trees until Ghorbash shifts and clears his throat. “Hey.”

“Hm?”

“You don’t want to kiss that pilgrim, do you?”

“ _What_?” Corim shoots upright, scandalized. “No! Why would you even say that?”

“Just checking,” Ghorbash says, and grins.

Corim settles back down against his side, grumbling. Ghorbash wraps an arm around him. His head still aches dully, and every inch of him feels bruised and raw. He can’t stop smiling.


	5. V

He shouldn’t have done it.

The thought rattles around in his skull all the way back to Whiterun. Not the saving Ghorbash part, the kiss – so foolish, so _selfish_ of him! It’s dangerous to let himself give into those urges, especially right now. But Ghorbash had been alive, and all he’d cared about was the fact that he’d saved the Gildergreen. That he’d done it for Corim, so proud of himself with his stupid, perfect smile and his stupid, generous heart. It had only been the barest of kisses, but it had set him aflame. Which is exactly why he shouldn’t have done it.

Ghorbash isn’t a fool. He’s noticed the change in Corim’s demeanor, the way he avoids eye contact and shies away like a frightened horse whenever Ghorbash comes near him. But he doesn’t bring it up until they’re safely within city limits.

“Corim.” His tone is serious. Corim flinches. They’re standing outside the Drunken Huntsman. “We should talk about last night.”

"You mean the dragon?" A  _dragon,_ of all things. He hasn't been in Skyrim long, but it's been long enough to know there aren't usually great winged lizards roaming the skies.

The look Ghorbash gives him makes it clear that he doesn't appreciate Corim playing the fool. "You know what I'm talking about."

“Later.” He just has to make it through to morning. “I need to bring this to Danica.”

Ghorbash’s jaw tightens, but he drops it. They go to the temple. To say their gift comes as a surprise is an understatement, but once Corim explains how they came by it, Danica agrees to plant the sapling in the old Gildergreen’s stead and tend to it. The renewed conviction in her eyes gives Corim hope, and he silently gives thanks to Kyne in return.

The afternoon sun bears down on his head and shoulders as they step back outside, the crowded marketplace sprawling below them. The scents of roasting meat, dirt, sweat and warm bodies all mingle, drifting towards them on the breeze. His mouth waters, fine hairs all over his body prickling. His nails threaten to lengthen. He folds his hands into fists, and they dig into his palms. He has to get out of there. _So much warm blood…_

“Hey.” Ghorbash’s hand is heavy on the back of his neck, making him jump, and then the sweet ache of submission suffuses him, makes him want to go boneless and pliant beneath his potential mate. He squirms away before he can do something truly foolhardy, like roll over and show his belly. Ghorbash squints down at him. “What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing!” It’s a flimsy, paper-thin lie, and they both know it the second it leaves his mouth. “I don’t… it’s nothing.”

“You don’t what?”

“I don’t know! Leave it!” He darts down the steps and away, into the throng. Merchants shout out their wares, haggle with customers, and beneath the chatter and laughter, the clink of coin exchanging hands fills the air. He’s jostled about as he squeezes past, moving against the flow of the crowd. Nobody pays him much mind. He’s just a lone elf, small and dirty, no one worth noticing. He’s grateful for it. Further down the way, the crush of people thins out, and he slows his pace, trotting along the street that leads back to the Huntsman. Ghorbash will follow eventually, he knows, but he needs space to clear his head.

_If he finds out…_

_He won’t find out_ , he argues with himself. _I just need to make it to the morning._

_And then what? Everything goes back to how it was before?_

_Yes,_ he tells the voice stubbornly. It will. It has to. He won’t go back to waking up alone, wandering a strange land by himself. He’ll apologize on his hands and knees, if it’ll make things right. Overhead, the faint twin crescents of the moons hang above the sun, watching him. Taunting him. Tonight, they will be full, ripe to bursting like rotten fruit. He slams the door to the inn behind him.

 

The sun’s final rays blaze across the hills, setting them aflame, and Corim’s words ring shrill in Ghorbash’s ears. _Don’t follow me!_ He swats them away like gnats with a silent apology.

Something is terribly wrong. He can feel it, and the feeling is what leads him to track Corim across the plains, following his trail. The fact that it’s so obvious worries him too; Corim is normally much better at covering his tracks. But what concerns him most of all is that Corim has done the unthinkable and left his bow behind. What possessed him to venture out into the wilds unarmed, Ghorbash can’t say. But he wonders as he wades through the grass and the sky grows darker by the second. The last sliver of sun disappears below the horizon.

The moons are half-risen by the time he finds the cave. The entrance is boarded up, a tattered red pennant fluttering over the entrance; both a clear marker that bandits have claimed it for their own. He hears a noise and whirls around, grasping for the handle of his axe. Corim staggers out of the nearby grass, swaying like he’s drunk.

“Corim!” He can’t help himself. “What are you doing? It’s not safe here!”

“I told you,” Corim snarls. The moonlight makes his eyes flicker from hazel to gold. “I _told_ you not to follow me!”

“What’s going on?” He advances. Corim scrambles back. Frustration chokes him. “Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong? I just want to help – “

“You can’t help me!” Corim doubles over, falls to his knees. Ghorbash has never heard him sound so anguished, or so furious. It’s like being dragged towards the waterfall all over again, but worse. “You have to go. You have to – “ The rest of his words are swept away by a groan that makes Ghorbash’s skin crawl.

“Well, well.” Three bandits at the cave’s entrance now, big and scarred, armed to the teeth. Their leader is a Nord in steel plate armor, warhammer strapped to his back. He smiles nastily. “Looks like we have guests, boys.”

Ghorbash goes to draw his axe. “No,” Corim gasps, shuddering. His voice sounds different. Deeper, twisted and strangled. Wrong. “Leave, _please_ …”

“Stay put,” the archer warns, arrow trained between Ghorbash’s eyes. “Nobody’s going anywhere.”

The third bandit draws his sword. “Not until we’ve shown you boys some hospitality.”

Ghorbash looks down at Corim. For the first time in years, he’s afraid; not for himself, but for his friend, on his hands and knees in the grass, defenseless.

“Why?” he asks. “Why did you come here?”

Corim’s head snaps up, and Ghorbash realizes – it’s not the moonlight reflecting off his eyes that makes them look gold. They _are_ gold, blazing like miniature suns in the dark.

“To hunt,” he says, and fur bursts through his skin.

The bandits cry out in alarm, fall back into a defensive stance. Ghorbash doesn’t move. He can’t move. The thing that stands where Corim was only moments before rises up on its hind legs, hulking and shaggy. It raises its muzzle and sniffs the air. A long red tongue lolls between razor-point teeth, panting.

“What the fuck is that?!” the archer yells, fumbling to draw his bow again with shaking hands.

“You idiot, that’s a werewolf!” their chief yells back. The beast’s head swivels toward them, lips peeling back with a snarl. Its clawed fingers flex, and it leaps, covering an impossible distance in a single motion. The archer goes down, blood spurting from deep gashes in his chest and throat. The other two turn tail and flee back inside the cave, and it gives chase, claws scoring deep tracks in the dirt. It doesn’t so much as spare Ghorbash a second glance. More screams echo from deep in the bowels of the cave, only to be drowned out by a triumphant howl.

Ghorbash’s fingers wrap around the handle of his axe. He needs to leave. He should have done what Corim said in the first place and left well enough alone. Following him had been a mistake. But even as he thinks these things, he’s already heading into the cave.

It’s not much, as far as hideouts go. It doesn’t matter. The stench of death lingers in the air, thick in the back of his throat, and he gags, quits breathing through his nose. Blood, and worse, is splattered across the rock walls and soaking into the dirt. He follows the carnage down to the main chamber, where he finds the werewolf feasting on the remains on the bandit chief. He steps forward.

It whirls around, muzzle wrinkled and teeth bared. Bloods drips from its jaws, matted in its fur, and its claws flash as it lunges at him. He dodges back, loses his footing inches from those gnashing teeth, and lands hard. It looms over him, bulky frame heaving with deep, labored breaths. Ghorbash scrambles away, into a crouch. It growls, but doesn’t move. He looks at the ruined bodies of the bandit men, torn to ribbons, then back at the beast. He’s heard gruesome tails of what werewolves can do with the scent of blood in their nostrils, and to see it for himself…

But this is Corim, somewhere behind those flat, savage eyes, and if he’s ever needed Ghorbash, now is the time. Ghorbash keeps one hand on his axe, even as he extends the other, shaking, smeared with blood and grime.

“Corim,” he says, voice soft as he can make it. He has no idea if this will work. He prays to Malacath he won’t have to kill his friend. “Corim, it’s me. It’s okay.”

The beast’s eyes never leave his own. It growls, showing red-stained teeth, and Ghorbash keeps his breathing even. His hand steadies.

“You should have told me,” he says. Curiously, he’s no longer afraid, even though he thinks he should be. “I don’t care what you are. Remember what I said?” It – _Corim_ – whines uncertainly, tail twitching. Ghorbash dares to stand, heart pounding. “When you first asked. I said, ‘where you go, I will follow’.” The mottled fur is coarse against his skin. He strokes Corim’s cheek, pets the softer fur behind his ear. “Come back to me.”

The wolf is silent, eerie yellow eyes boring into him. And then, to his astonishment, it nuzzles into his hand, licks his bloody palm. When it looks back at him, its eyes are no longer so utterly alien. There’s something on the edge of familiar there. He wraps his arms around its neck and presses his face against the thick ruff, relief leaving him momentarily speechless. It doesn’t hug back, but it stands there patiently until he’s done. He steps away and gives silent thanks to Malacath for hearing him on this night. He beckons it to follow. “Come on. Let’s hunt.” The wolf rumbles low in its chest, sound pleased, and bounds ahead, leading him out of the cave.

 

They roam the plains for hours, rendered colorless by the silvery light of the moons, and when Corim has eaten his fill, he darts off towards where the flatlands meet the forest. Ghorbash waits. The wolf reemerges after a moment, and comes loping back to circle him, nudging him forward with a growl of what is hopefully just impatience. He gives in and allows himself to be lead through a dense patch of trees and scrub brush to the other side, Corim crashing along in front of him, until they reach the grassy shore of a lake.

It’s a tranquil night, soft breeze blowing, and torchbugs flicker like stars over the water’s surface. Corim doesn’t waste any time. He dives in, sending water everywhere, and Ghorbash sits on the bank and watches him paddle around, chasing after fish. He feels strangely calm. Maybe he’s in shock; it would explain why he’s watching an eight-foot-tall werewolf splash around in the shallows like an overgrown pup. On cue, Corim climbs back onto shore, a wriggling histcarp clutched in his jaws, and shakes, drenching both Ghorbash and a nearby bush.

Ghorbash wipes off his dripping face. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Corim ignores him, hunkering down to gnaw happily at his prize. Ghorbash sighs. He doesn’t know what he expected. “We’re gonna talk about this in the morning.”

He ends up falling asleep not long after, with the beast’s furry bulk curled securely at his back. When he wakes, it’s late morning, sun shining hot in a cloudless sky, and he holds a naked Corim in his arms. He freezes, and Corim stirs, yawning. His face is rumpled with sleep, eyes droopy and sweet, and he nuzzles Ghorbash’s throat, a soft noise of contentment bubbling up from his chest. It’s everything Ghorbash had dreamt it might be.

But only for a moment.

He can feel Corim tense, muscles bunching beneath his skin, and then he’s struggling to get away. It hurts, but Ghorbash lets him go.

Corim huddles against the stately roots of an old tree, arms wrapped around his knees. He’s shaking. “What in Oblivion is wrong with you?” His voice is raspy, and furious. “I could have killed you!”

Ghorbash sits up slowly, wincing. Sleeping in his armor has left him sore, joints protesting. “You didn’t.”

“That’s not the point!” Corim yells. A pair of crows shoot out of the treetop, cackling. “I _told_ you – “

“I know what you told me!” Ghorbash hunches over, elbows braced against his knees. He can feel a headache coming on. “You know what you _didn’t_ tell me? That you’re a werewolf!”

“Oh, I wonder why!”

“Were you ever planning on telling me?” He scrubs a hand over his eyes. “Or were you going to wait until, I dunno, you turned one night while we were traveling and couldn’t get away in time?”

Corim opens his mouth, then closes it. He seems to collapse further into himself. “I was trying to protect you.”

“That’s shit,” Ghorbash says bluntly. “I don’t need protecting. I need you to tell me the truth.”

“You know what’s shit?” Corim snaps, brittle. “I asked you not to do something and you did it anyway, but you’re the one who’s mad at me.”

“You lied to me!” Ghorbash climbs to his feet, headache forgotten in the wake of his fury. “You don’t get to keep things from me and pretend it’s for my own good. It was about protecting _yourself_. Plain and simple.” He jabs a finger at Corim, punctuating the accusation. “Because you didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth. Even after you kissed me – “

“I am a _monster_!” Corim roars, and the raw fear in his voice stuns Ghorbash into silence. “There are scores of people who would kill me on sight if they knew what I am! Why would I think you could ever love me if you did?”

His eyes flicker, gold shining through the brown, and Ghorbash feels sick. “Corim,” he tries, but Corim shakes his head, pressing himself against the tree. His skin ripples, fingers lengthening. “Corim, wait. Don’t do this!”

But it’s too late. Fur cascades down his body, face elongating, and the wolf falls onto all fours with an anguished howl. It turns and takes off, tearing through the trees at full speed.

“Corim!” Ghorbash shouts again, but even as it leaves his mouth, he knows it’s no use. Corim is running far, far away, as far as he can go, somewhere Ghorbash can’t follow, and he may never catch up again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like the old legend that someone who loves a werewolf can call them back to the their true form/nature, and that influences the way I write werewolf mythology, even in TES.


	6. VI

Months go by.

Months of hiding out in Skyrim’s most remote reaches, miserable and freezing, never staying in one place too long. He spends more time as a beast than a mer, until it becomes easier to remain in control when he transforms, and his consciousness begins to mingle with the wolf’s. In exchange, he loses chunks of time. The days blur together in an endless succession of running and hunting and sleeping, blood hot on his tongue and snow cold beneath his paws. At night, he curls up in abandoned caves and dreams of warmth – a fire, a bed, strong arms around him – but he stays away from settlements, afraid of losing control. What if they can somehow sense what he is? It’s easier to be a wolf than himself, in the end. It hurts less. He considers leaving Skyrim, but can’t quite bring himself to do it. He doesn’t let himself think about why.

He’s hunting in the woods near Falkreath holdings one day when he sees others like himself. Two Nord men, identical down to their armor and shaggy hair, stringing up a deer carcass on a wooden pole. They smell like him, like night and animal and wild blood, and he whimpers, tucking his tail between his legs. He’s sorely tempted to show himself, but he has no way of knowing if they’ll accept him into their pack, and Ghorbash’s face drifts through his thoughts, hazy and disapproving. He doesn’t deserve a pack. He hides in the brush and watches the men disappear downriver with their prize. He tucks his muzzle beneath his paws, whines again. He’s no longer hungry. After that, he sticks to snowier climes, where few dare to tread and game is scarce. Less temptation that way.

More time passes. How much, he doesn’t know. Part of him wishes he were dead, but death won’t solve his problems; the second he breathes his last, his soul is forfeit, slated for the Wild God’s hunting grounds. Instead, he claims an old bear den for his own, and fills it with things – the fur and bones of his kills, pretty rocks, fallen branches and frozen flowers he uncovers in a snowbank nearby. It’s not much, but he can’t deny that it feels good to have something he can return to.

Of course, it also makes him easier to track.

One evening, not long after, a blizzard hits. It’s not especially bad, as far as blizzards go, but he’s deep in the woods, a mile or two from his den. The wind snaps at tree branches and whips the snow into a flurry, and he loses the scent of the deer he’s been tracking. He growls, gnashes his teeth in frustration. He’s hungry, but not dangerously so. Better to wait out the storm and try again later.

“Corim!”

It takes him a second. It’s been a long time since he’s heard his name, but when it registers, he whirls around, his vision obscured by the snow. No one is there. He can’t smell anything. The call comes again, faint on the wind. “Corim!”

He’s going mad from sheer loneliness. It’s finally happening. He’s losing his mind –

A tall, hooded figure materializes from between a pair of trees, hands cupped around the lower part of its face.

“Corim!” they yell once more, and he knows that voice, _he knows that voice_. “I know that’s you! Don’t run!”

He runs. He dodges through the trees and plows through snowdrifts, scrambles over boulders and leaps over logs until the forest is well behind him, tracks blown away by the storm. He runs until he’s safe back in his den, entrance covered by the branches and bramble he’d dragged in front of it, and he curls up in the corner, trembling. He stays there until a pair of mailed boots kick the brush aside, and Ghorbash squats at the entrance, peering in at him. He bares his teeth, bristling.

“Stop that,” Ghorbash says. His tone is firm, but he doesn’t seem angry. Corim stops. Ghorbash runs a hand over his face. He looks more or less the same, but there’s a gravity in his expression that’s new. Corim knows it must be because of him, and guilt sinks its teeth into his heart. “Can you turn back? It’s hard to talk to you when you’re like this.”

It’s the least he can do, but the beast resists, and he has to wrestle with it to take control of his body. How long has it been between transformations? Days? Weeks? He grabs one of the pelts strewn around the den, wrapping it around his shoulders.

“It’s cold.” His voice is rusty, cracking from lack of use.

Ghorbash looks pained, then determined. “I know.” He holds out his hand. “Come with me. We’ll go somewhere warm.”

“I can’t.” The pelt only does so much. His teeth chatter. “How did you even find me?”

“It’s not that hard to track a giant wolf.”

Now that Corim’s eyes are adjusting, he can make out new details. Ghorbash’s beard has grown in thick. Snowflakes glimmer like stars against the black of it when he turns his head. There’s a new scar on his cheek, freshly healed. His mouth is flat with impatience. “If we leave now, we can make it to Dawnstar before midnight.”

“I told you. I can’t.”

“Why not?” Ghorbash challenges him, spreading his arms wide. “No one knows but me. It’s not a full moon. You’ll be safe.”

“It’s not me you need to worry about!” Corim bites his tongue until he tastes iron. “Why are you still wasting your time on me?”

“Why do you think?” Ghorbash says. “I want to be with you.”

He has to laugh. It hurts a little. He hasn’t laughed in a long time. “How… how can you still want to be with me? After all of this?”

“Like I haven’t always known what a stubborn bastard you are,” Ghorbash says, and there’s frustration there, but infinite tenderness too, tangled together. “And I didn’t just spend half a year tracking you all over Skyrim to tell you that I don’t want you, so quit feeling sorry for yourself and come out of there.”

It takes Corim a few tries to stay upright; he’s not used to standing on two legs anymore. But eventually he steadies, and wraps the pelt tight around his shoulders. Outside, it’s even colder and more uncaring, the snow coming down in thick flurries to blanket the sleeping trees with frost. But outside also lies his second chance – maybe his last. He climbs out of the den and into Ghorbash’s waiting arms.

 

They ride for Dawnstar, Corim bundled in Ghorbash’s cloak and burrowed against his chest. He doesn’t deserve these kindnesses, but he greedily soaks them in all the same, like a tree in the first rain of the season. He falls asleep partway there, and when he wakes, Ghorbash is carrying him to a room at the inn like he weighs nothing. Maybe he does. He’s always been lean, but months of constant activity and poor diet have left him brittle in comparison.

He’s given food and water, but Ghorbash won’t let him have more than a few bites, and he complains even though he knows it’s what’s best for his shrunken gut. It just feels good to talk to someone besides himself again. He nibbles at his dinner while Ghorbash fills the basin with water heated from the fireplace and gets a spare cloth. He strips down while it’s still warm and bathes for the first time in months (according to Ghorbash, who disagrees that splashing around in the river counts as a bath).

He feels better when he’s done, but mostly, he’s exhausted. He feels like he could sleep through the next era, but he hesitates next to the bed when it comes time to get in, unsure if he’s welcome. Ghorbash takes his hand and tugs him onto the mattress. One burly arm folds around him, keeping him close. This silent forgiveness is almost too much. He hides his face in the pillow so Ghorbash can’t see him fighting back tears.

Ghorbash’s hand smooths along his back and side, over and over again, like he’s reassuring himself that Corim is really there.

“You never told me how it happened,” he says.

Corim has never told anyone how it happened, but he figures if he can trust anyone with the story, it’s someone who spent half a year chasing after him instead of running away. “Not that there’s much to tell,” he warns.

“I want to know,” Ghorbash says.

Corim tells him.

It had happened not long after he’d come to Skyrim and struck out on his own. He’d been hunting in the woods when he stumbled across a few men, rough-looking Nords, sitting around a fire. To his surprise, they’d invited him to come share their meal. It had been this simple act of seeming kindness that had led him to travel north with them, lonely for companionship once more. Loneliness, he’d come to learn, would be his downfall on more than one occasion.

They were no ordinary hunters, but members of a group called the Silver Hand, dedicated to wiping out the Wild God’s moon-children by any means necessary. A rogue werewolf had been terrorizing villages in the Reach, they’d explained; someone who had been consumed by the transformation, leaving only the beast behind. They were to track it down and put a stop to the bloodshed. But to trap a beast, they’d needed bait. And – Corim’s lip curls bitterly – who better to serve as bait than a lone Bosmer with no one to mourn him?

“They left me for dead,” he finishes, and retracts his claws. They’d grown as he talked, and were threatening to rip holes in the sheets. “But I survived.”

Ghorbash bundles him closer still, Corim’s back against his front, and rests his chin on top of Corim’s head.

“You survived,” he agrees, voice full of quiet pride. Corim blinks back tears that threaten to fall for the second time that night, and Ghorbash gives him a squeeze. “Sleep. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve a warm bed, or this easy, uncomplicated acceptance. But he has it, and for the moment, exhaustion outweighs guilt. He closes his eyes and lets the sound of Ghorbash’s breathing in his ear lull him to sleep.

 

In the morning, there’s breakfast, and Ghorbash lugs in buckets of water heated by the fireplace so they can both bathe more thoroughly. Freshly scrubbed, Corim sits on the bed in one of Ghorbash’s spare tunics and watches him soak away his own sweat and grime. Finally, the question that’s been nagging at him since yesterday demands an answer.

“Why aren’t you angry with me?”

“I was,” Ghorbash says. He dunks his head into the basin, soapy water sloshing over the sides, and blows water out of his nostrils when he surfaces. “When you first left.”

“Oh.” Corim picks at a stray thread on the sleeve of the tunic. “Aren’t you still?”

“Should I be?”

“Yes!” Why this swift forgiveness frustrates him, he doesn’t know, but it makes him bristle like a cornered animal. To accept it feels akin to walking into a trap. “Why would you want anything to do with me, now that you know what I am?”

“I guess you wouldn’t remember,” Ghorbash says, more to himself than Corim. He grabs the cloth hanging on the bedpost and starts drying his face. “I told you that night I found out, I don’t care what you are. Or am I supposed to think that you’re just some mindless beast now?”

Corim doesn’t answer. Ghorbash stands up, water streaming down his torso, and steps out of the basin. Corim looks away. He listens to the sound of fabric against damp skin, and floorboards creaking, and then a big, rough hand takes his chin and turns his face forward. Ghorbash crouches in front of him, his palm cradling Corim’s cheek. Corim turns to the side, lips pressing against warm skin.

“What if that is all I am?” he whispers in Ghorbash’s palm. “It was so hard to come back this time. What if next time, I go too far?”

“You won’t,” Ghorbash says.

“How do you know?”

“You can never go too far to come back home.”

Corim swallows, a lump in his throat. Ghorbash gives him plenty of time to back away. He doesn’t, and their lips meet slow and careful in the pale, wintry sunlight streaming through the window. It’s hard for Corim to parse all the emotions that rush over him at once – relief, affection, remorse – and between the sudden warmth and Ghorbash’s mouth, he’s left a little dizzy, skin tingling. But he can’t allow himself to be distracted just yet. He has to know.

“What made you stop being angry?” he asks, pulling away.

Ghorbash motions at him to scoot over, and sits on the bed next to him, mattress dipping beneath his weight.

“A man I met in Falkreath.” He braces his palms on his thighs, looks down at the backs of his scarred hands while he talks. “He was in prison for killing a little girl. Turns out, he was like you. He tried to steal a ring from Hircine, to control his transformations, and instead ended up cursed so that he had no control over them at all.”

“Y’ffre,” Corim whispers.

Ghorbash nods, solemn. “Never seen a living creature so hopeless. It was like… there was nothing left in him. Not even despair. Made me think about you.” He clears his throat. “What it must be like. Hard to stay angry after that.”

 _I don’t deserve you_ , Corim thinks. But self-pity changes nothing, so he puts his hand over Ghorbash’s.

“Thank you,” he says instead. And Ghorbash kisses him again, deeper this time, coaxing his mouth open with little nibbles and flicks of his tongue while he presses Corim into the pillows, until Corim gasps, “Thank you, thank you, thank you…” against his lips.

The tunic ends up crumpled around his waist, then off altogether. Ghorbash’s tusks leave indents on his cheek, make him gasp when they catch the shell of his ear; his big hands splay possessively across Corim’s thighs, callused fingertips dragging on soft clean skin.

“This okay?” His skin is still a little damp, and hot enough that it feels like sparks are igniting wherever they touch.

Corim presses his forehead into Ghorbash’s shoulder and cants his hips, thighs squeezing his thick waist. Ghorbash is solid muscle, built from a lifetime of fighting and hard labor, a welcome weight keeping him pinned to the bed. He digs his nails into the meat of Ghorbash’s shoulders, feeling the muscles tense, the growl that reverberates against his chest.

“More.” He whispers it like a prayer. “I want all of you.”

Ghorbash doesn’t say anything, but his breathing stutters and his cock is rigid against Corim’s, wet tip nudging against his thigh. His hands slide to cup Corim’s arse and pull him closer still; they slide together, a sigh spilling from Corim’s lips, pre-come slick on his belly. The winter wind blows outside the window, but it can’t reach them, and inside the room, it feels heady and warm as any spring morning. Corim throws his head back, begs wordlessly until Ghorbash kisses him again and makes his stomach clench, makes him ache all over in the best kind of way. Like flowers are blooming just beneath his skin.

“You’re so good,” Ghorbash murmurs, kissing his jaw, his cheek, his nose. “So good for me.” And Corim nearly sobs, hips jerking involuntarily at the long, slow glide of bare skin on skin. “S’okay. I’ve got you.”

Rafters creak and wind whistles against the stone joints of the inn. Inside, Corim rolls his hips and pants, sweat streaking his temples. Ghorbash is hot against him, all around him, and he wants to live in this moment forever, suspended in sweet agony. Ghorbash kisses him all the while. Can’t seem to stop kissing him – deep, long kisses that leave him breathless – and when he slides a hand between their bodies to wrap one huge fist around both their cocks, Corim’s back arches like his bow, right before the arrow releases. 

Ghorbash smiles against his mouth, says something too soft to hear. It’s drowned out by his blood pounding in his ears. They rut gracelessly, grinding and bucking and slipping against each other in their eagerness. Ghorbash’s cock throbs against his with every thrust.

“ _Gods_ – “ He hooks his ankles around the backs of Ghorbash’s thighs and drives up, whimpering as the lightning arcs down his spine once more. Ghorbash rubs his thumb across the blunt head of Corim’s cock, slick and flushed, in sweet little circles. When he traces the vein along the underside, everything goes white, and spring bursts into full bloom. Corim comes with his face buried in Ghorbash’s chest, his hands tangled in Ghorbash’s hair. Ghorbash isn’t far behind him. One, two, three more pumps of his fist, and then he’s adding to the mess on Corim’s belly and thighs with a stifled groan.

 _I love you,_ Corim thinks, watching the tendons in Ghorbash’s neck as his head falls back, his face blissful and anguished all at once. Maybe he says it out loud. He can’t be sure.

When they finally untangle themselves, the now-sweaty tunic is used to mop up the worst of it and then unceremoniously tossed into the corner of the room. Corim tucks himself into Ghorbash’s side, nuzzling into his neck, and Ghorbash holds him like he’s afraid Corim’s going to flee the second he lets go. Their kisses are slower now, softer; Ghorbash gives his arse a playful squeeze, smiling into his hair when Corim bats his hand away. “That was my good shirt.”

“Not anymore.” It makes his heart bloom too, to hear Ghorbash laugh again, but in a different way. Something deeper and more enduring has taken root and flowered in his absence, and he holds on tight, arms winding around Ghorbash’s neck. “Although I guess I could wash it for you, since it is partly my fault that it’s dirty.”

“Generous of you.”

“Very.” He trails his finger along Ghorbash’s cheek. “I like the beard.”

“You do?”

“Mm.”

“Maybe I’ll keep it then,” Ghorbash says. “I was thinkin’ about shaving, but I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

“Take your time,” Corim says, and tilts his face up for another kiss. “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

The sapling is in bloom.

The old Gildergreen has been gone for some time now, its wood repurposed into a new altar to give Kynareth her praises. In its place, the new tree grows, slender branches heavy with budding flowers. Corim imagines it fully grown, decades from now – taller than the temple, tall as the tallest building in Whiterun, whole city flooded with pink petals. At his side, Ghorbash nods, satisfied.

“Looks nice. Guess I don’t regret saving it from that dragon after all.”

Corim punches him in the arm.

They aren’t planning to stay long. Neither of them is overly fond of city walls or the way human eyes linger, suspicious of anything unlike themselves. But Corim had wanted to see the tree, and it cheers him to see the temple filled with pilgrims and the renewed conviction in Danica’s eyes. They’re watching hope grow right along with the sapling, little by little. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Ghorbash watching him. “What?”

“Hm?”

“You’re staring at me.”

“It’s nice to see you happy.” Ghorbash’s arm curls around his shoulders, thumb stroking his collarbone. “What, am I not allowed to look at my husband?”

“Definitely not.” Corim leans into him, somewhere between embarrassed and proud. _Husband._ He’s still not used to it; like armor or a new bow, it needs breaking in. He’s sure he’s never going to get used to the way Ghorbash looks at him, like he’s something worth keeping, more precious than jewels or gold. But he’d vowed the night they married that he’d do his best to deserve it all the same. Every day for the rest of his life.

The sapling rustles, branches bobbing, and a stray petal lands on Corim’s cheek. When he raises his hand to brush it away, a familiar scent tickles his nose.

At first, he thinks he’s imagining it. Whiterun is a jumble of noise and smell at the best of times, meat and sweat and smoke from the forges. But he catches it again when he breathes in – faint, almost lost beneath the aroma of the Gildergreen’s flowers, but growing stronger. He raises his head and sniffs at the air. Ghorbash looks down curiously. “Something wrong?”

“No, it’s…” _Pack. Like me. Home._ The words stick in his throat. He swallows. “They’re here.”

“Who is?”

“The ones like me.” He’s already moving, letting his instincts tell him which direction to go. When he looks back, Ghorbash hasn’t moved. He bounces on the balls of his feet, impatient. “Are you coming?”

Surprise flashes across Ghorbash’s face, like he hadn’t realized that he was supposed to follow. “Did you want me to?”

Corim reaches out, offers his hand. He doesn’t miss the way it makes Ghorbash smile. “’Course I do.”

 

On the steps of the longhouse the Nords call Jorrvaskr, two men wait. They’re near-identical, dressed in black plate armor with a steel wolf emblazoned on the cuirass, and the wolf nestled in Corim’s breast wags its tail in recognition. _We know them!_ He remembers their scent from that day outside Falkreath, and he stands on the bottom stair, Ghorbash’s hand in his and a lump in his throat. He wants to speak, but the words won’t come. The bigger of the twins grins at his brother.

“Toldja.”

“At least your nose still works.” The leaner of the two peers down at them, brows drawn together. “You, elf. Come here.”

Corim lets go of Ghorbash’s hand. His feet carry him up the steps to them.

“I know you,” he blurts, looking between them. “I saw you in the woods. You’re…”

“Like you,” the bigger twin finishes. He towers over Corim, but his eyes are kind. “I’m Farkas. This is my brother Vilkas.” Vilkas nods curtly.

“I’m Corim. That’s Ghorbash.” He looks around. “What is this place?”

“Jorrvaskr?” Farkas studies him. “You’re not from around here, huh?” Corim shakes his head. “It’s the home of the Companions. They’re our family, and we fight for those who can’t fight for themselves.”

“As long as the coin’s good,” Vilkas puts in.

“Are you all a pack?”

“Just the Circle. Not everyone knows, so careful who you talk to,” Farkas says. “Where’s yours?”

“It’s just us,” Corim says. The twins’ faces soften in understanding. He licks dry lips and gathers his courage. “Could… could we join you?”

“Not for us to say.” Farkas jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Gotta talk to the old man.”

“Who?”

“The Harbinger,” Vilkas says, glaring at his brother. “Kodlak Whitemane. He decides who’s worthy to join our ranks.”

“As long as you can fight, you’ll be fine.” Farkas nudges Vilkas. “Come on. He’s like us. He belongs here.”

 _Belongs_. It warms him like Valenwood sunshine.

“Fine,” Vilkas concedes, though he still looks guarded. “He can talk to Kodlak. And what about you?” He looks Ghorbash over. “You any good with that axe?”

Ghorbash bares his teeth. It’s almost friendly. “Take me to your training yard and you’ll find out.”

Vilkas' expression sours again , but Farkas laughs, a deep, booming sound. “I like you. You’re gonna fit in just fine. Come on, I’ll take you to Kodlak.”

Ghorbash looks up at Corim. “You wanna go see if we’re cut out for this?”

“I know we are.”

“Alright.” His smile meets his eyes this time, fond. “Lead the way.”

Jorrvaskr’s heavy wooden doors, carved with likenesses and deeds long past, stand proud before them. Behind those doors, Corim hears laughter and a crackling fire in the hearth; he smells mead and metal and blood, and beneath it all, more of the Wild God’s children. _He belongs here,_ Farkas had said, and he wants it to be true. He will _make_ it true. He and Ghorbash will have their home. When Farkas beckons them in, there’s no hesitation in their step. He and Ghorbash climb over the threshold together, and the doors swing shut behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I finally finished this thing. Thanks to everyone who's read, left kudos or commented! I appreciate you all immensely, and hope you enjoyed the journey.


End file.
